


7 Years Earlier

by Powerfulweak



Series: High School Reunion [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Artist Castiel, Awkward Situation, Destiel - Freeform, Drug Use, Drug use mention, High School Reunion, M/M, Tech Millionaire Dean, anxiety mention, current pining, entrepreneur!Dean, past pining, pining like a forest, pot smoking, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 19:33:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8297701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Powerfulweak/pseuds/Powerfulweak
Summary: A Prequel to "15 Years On," showing how Castiel and Dean really did meet after high school.Disillusioned Artist Castiel Novak is struggling to find his identity after leaving the New York art scene. Little does he know that a commission out of Silicon Valley and a unlikely reunion might hold the key.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I had many, many requests form readers wanting to know how Castiel and Dean really got together in 15 Years On, and this idea gelled almost immediately once I began considering a prequel/sequel.
> 
> Thank you to [ANobleCompanion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANobleCompanion/pseuds/ANobleCompanion) for Beta Reading

Corporate events can kiss Castiel’s ass.

He stares down at the plate in front of him, the paltry amount of food artfully arranged by some Michelin-star rated chef, no doubt at some exorbitant cost. He picks up a fork and boredly pushes the decorative piece of okra off the the top of the stack of food, causing it to topple in on itself. 

There, now it's worthless.

The little voice in the back of his head tells him that would make a great concept for an avant garde show at Balthazar's gallery, but he instantly quashes it. That wasn't him anymore. He didn't want to make art decrying style over substance while still being completely insubstantial himself. He’d known that as soon as the New York Times called him “the next Banksy,” he had to get out.

“...and with the opening of our new offices, we are providing a space for the kind of creativity and groundbreaking innovation that has become synonymous with ‘Impala.’” The speaker onstage, some big shot motherfucker in the company who Castiel doesn't recognize, takes a small sip of water before continuing. “With that in mind, we've strived to outfit this facility in a manner fitting only-” 

And yet here Castiel was, taking on a commission like a corporate shill. The thought causes him to groan and shoot back the remainder of his vodka on ice.

To be fair, the arrangement to create the art installation for Impala’s atrium had been brokered by his agent only a week before he'd fired him and had come with a hefty advance. Castiel had tried to get out of the arrangement, but it would have meant returning the money, all of which was already earmarked for his exodus out of New York.

So he'd grit his teeth and taken the job, putting in as little effort as possible and creating a piece so bland and derivative, he was sure some hipster blogger was going to label it “post modern” or “ironic.” At least, he'd expected Impala to fire him.

Instead they’d loved it and sent several glowing emails and press releases praising Castiel specifically, even as he was trying to distance himself from his old image and his name.

How sad was it that he wanted to escape his name?

“... Castiel Novak!” Castiel jumps at the sound of his name followed by polite applause and all eyes in the room turning on him. “Castiel has created a piece exemplifying Impala’s drive toward the future, changing the landscape of not only the technology market, but people’s lives…” Castiel finds himself shrinking against the intent stares from the crowd. The attention causes a sudden tightness in his chest and his breathing begins to quicken. He digs his fingernails into his palms, willing himself to relax, but right now he wants nothing more than to get the fuck away from all of these people. 

The speaker continues and focus is once again shifted. Castiel takes the opportunity to subtly extract himself from the party, exiting the atrium of the Impala building.

His heels click on the concrete floor as he walks down the hallway, eventually ending up in the massive glass lobby, impressive in its impressiveness. A plainclothes security guard in a dark suit chats up a young woman sitting behind a modernistic reception desk, neither one sparing Castiel a glance as he passes. 

He's hit by a gust of cool sea air as he finally steps outside, breathing in the briny scent with some relief. There are other scents in the air of course: exhaust, asphalt, new money, and also vaguely, Castiel thinks with a sly smirk, weed.

A soft cough behind him grabs his attention and Castiel turns around to find the source of the weed smell. 

A figure crouches on one of the lower steps leading to the entrance, tucked in the shadow of a parapet, the ember of his joint dancing along the darkness like a firefly.

“Sorry,” a gruff voice says, followed by another soft cough. 

“Uh, no worries man,” Castiel says, absently waving a hand. He doesn't know why, but he takes a step toward the shadowy figure, than another. The man takes another hit, the ember growing brighter as he does.

“Wanna hit?” The guy doesn't turn his head toward Castiel, just extends a hand out of the darkness, joint perched between a thick thumb and forefinger. “My dealer hooks me up because he wants a job.” Castiel blinks several times as the proffered joint. Sure, he’s been around some of the sleazier parts of the art scene, but most of the coke heads in New York would rather cut your throat than part with a line (unless you had DSLs and were willing to put them to use, which, Castiel admits, he occasionally did). Everyone had always told him California was different, but he never expected it to be “share-your-pot-with-a-stranger” different.

“Don't worry,” the guy says, “I've got a weed card. migraines.” Castiel can make out the movement of the man tapping a finger to his temple. He scoots across the step and out of the darkness, the soft light pouring out of the glass walls of the lobby highlighting his oddly pretty features: full lips pulled up into a gentle smile, well-cut jaw and chin, warm eyes only just beginning to crease at the corners. 

Castiel finds himself staring a moment too long before regaining his senses and taking another step forward.

“Thank you,” he says, reaching for the joint. He can't remember the last time he smoked, probably right before he dropped out of NYU. It had never really been his thing anyway, but he can't imagine you could forget how. He places it to his lips and takes a deep inhale. He has to fight back an initial cough, but the smooth warmth that follows is rather pleasant.

“It's good, right?” the guy asks with a chuckle as Castiel drops down onto the step next to him. “It won't lay you out either, just keep you-”

“Comfortably numb?” Castiel finishes, unexpectedly singing out the words. The guy looks at him for a moment then laughs softly again, retrieving the joint and taking another hit.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” he says. “Definitely makes these bullshit parties easier to deal with.” He hooks a thumb back at the building and Castiel’s gaze follows the gesture.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Castiel says, running a hand through his hair, pulling at it a little in frustration.

“Gotta do the grab and grin, though,” the guys sighs, exhaling out a plume of smoke. “Unfortunately.” Castiel only nods as he hands the joint back, taking another puff.

“Do you often share your weed with random strangers?” he asks. The guy considers this, pursing out his lips in thought. Castiel has a sudden, urgent need to know what those lips would feel like on his.

He blinks and shakes his head. Wow, that came out of nowhere.

“Nah, not really. Like I said, good stash,” he says. He turns his head and looks directly at Castiel, their eyes locked. “But we're not really strangers.” 

“I… I don't think I've ever met you before,” Castiel says as he shakes his head, his brow furrowed. He swears he sees a flicker of discomfort in the other man’s expression, but it's gone so fast he swears he must've imagined it.

“Well, I know  _ you _ .” He leans toward Castiel conspiratorially. “I hired you.” It takes a full seven seconds for Castiel to realize exactly who he has been sharing a joint with. 

“Dean Winchester,” Dean says, thrusting a hand in Castiel’s direction and interrupting the horror dawning on his face. 

“Oh my God,” Castiel breathes out after a moment, a plume of smoke cascading from his mouth as he does. “I… uh… Pleasure to meet you.” He's at a loss for anything else to say. Castiel has met famous people,  _ very _ famous people, before, but something about being face to face with a man who could literally buy and sell him 50 times over is intimidating.

“Same,” Dean says, his smile warm and sincere. He doesn’t seem to pick up on Castiel’s awkwardness, or if he does, he doesn’t make light of it. Instead, he plucks the joint back from Castiel’s hand and takes another hit. “Sorry we never had a formal introduction. I wanted to be there at the initial meeting, but you know how it is… duty calls.” He flashes Castiel a forced smile, and the difference between it and the real one from just a moment ago is striking. It’s the same smile he uses at his company’s keynotes, the same one that ends on above a caption on facebook (“Huge Breakthrough for Impala”) and Castiel finds he hates it. It’s an expression he remembers seeing on his own face, staring into a bathroom mirror and forcing down his anxiety so he could return to his own art show. 

“Yeah, I do know,” he admits bitterly. Dean’s soft, sincere little grin returns, as do Castiel’s curious thoughts about Dean’s lips. They sit on the steps a little longer, passing the blunt back and forth until it’s cashed. Dean crushes the final ember beneath his heel.

“Guess we should get back inside,” Dean says, rising from the step on long, bowed legs. He offers a hand up to Castiel, who takes it, fascinated by the feeling of Dean’s fingers against his. “They’re going to start wondering why the guest of honor is missing.”

“Yeah, well the owner of the company is a little important,” Castiel jokes. Dean raises an eyebrow.

“I wasn’t talking about me.” Castiel looks at him brow furrowing, but Dean just tips his head toward the building, indicating Castiel’s installation inside. “The party was to unveil your piece after all.” 

“Yeah, well...” Castiel shrugs, but he does find he’s very pleased to be distinguished by Dean this way. Who’s he to argue with a man who is the real life version of Tony Stark? He glances down, noticing for the first time that their hands are still wound together.

“Oh… uh… sorry.” Castiel pulls his hand back abruptly. “Um…” Dean licks at his lips and rubs at the back of his neck. It’s a nervous gesture and something about it strikes Castiel as oddly familiar, but he can’t place why.

“Not to be too forward,” Dean continues, “But… Would you’d like to, um, maybe grab dinner sometime?” He looks up at Castiel, the light from the building catching his eyes; For the first time Castiel notices how  _ green _ they are.

“Like… a date?” he asks. 

“Yeah, like a date,” Dean says, with a small shrug. “Or coffee or lunch, if you like.” Castiel’s brow furrows; is he really being asked out by the owner of a Fortune 500 company? 

Dean swallows hard and shoves his hands in the pockets of his slacks. “ I mean, if you're not interested, I'd understand, really-.” 

“No, I'd like that,” Castiel cuts him off. “Dinner sounds good.” He smiles at Dean, who looks up with his own relieved expression.

They exchange numbers, Castiel’s eyes drawn to Dean’s phone, no doubt a model not even on the market yet. 

They stand awkwardly for a moment, until Dean clears his throat.

“We should, uh… probably get back,” he says licking lips.

“Yeah,” Castiel says nodding, his gaze locked with Dean’s, but neither man moves. 

There is a charged moment where Dean seems to be hesitating, like waiting for a particular moment. He flexes on the balls of his feet before moving forward and wordlessly planting a kiss on Castiel’s lips.

Castiel doesn't hesitate at the contact. Instead he responds, kissing Dean back hungrily. His lips part and his tongue delves into Dean’s mouth, tasting the mix of weed and whiskey. Dean’s hand cups hard at his jaw, pulling his forward with such urgency he almost can't catch a breath.

The kiss doesn't last long, perhaps ten seconds, if that. It ends as abruptly as it began, the only evidence the slight flush to Dean’s cheeks and the swelling in Castiel’s boxers. 

“Shall we?” Dean smooths down the lines of his suit, gesturing for Castiel to lead the way as they head up the steps. 

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t see Dean for the rest of the night, both men ushered from one group to the next without pause. By the time Castiel has a moment to himself, he realizes Dean has already left. He regrets not being able to get a repeat of that kiss, but the promise of a date with Dean is enough to have him smiling like an idiot all the way back to his hotel. 

“So how’s Portland?” Meg asks over their Skype call the next day, her weekly ”wellness check” on him as she puts it. 

“Not in Portland anymore,” Castiel offers between bites of Frosted Flakes. The laptop is propped on top of a mound of blankets as he sits cross-legged in his boxers at the far edge of the bed. Maybe he should be embarrassed of the scene, but it’s Meg, so he can’t be. 

“So where now?” she asks, taking a long sip of her coffee. 

“San Jose. Silicon Valley” he finally supplies, setting aside his bowl and wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “I had this corporate event.”

“Corporate?” Meg raises an eyebrow. “Thought you were done with that shit.”

“Yeah, well…” he trails off, not wanting to rehash any more New York drama. “It was just a job, but something really weird happened last night.” Meg sets aside her mug and sits up, looking at Castiel with anticipation.

“So Impala is opening a new office or something. They commissioned me to make an installation for the central atrium, no big,” Castiel explains. “Last night they had this grand opening gala.”

“Ok?” Meg says, her tone telling Castiel to get to the point.

“So later in the night, I step outside to get some air, and…” he takes a breath. “The owner of the company is just sitting on the step, smoking a joint.”

Meg blinks for a moment.  “That’s it? That’s the weird part.”

“No, no, it’s not.” Castiel shakes his head. “Anyway, he offers me a hit. We end up sharing it and just kind of talking and then… he asks me on a date?” A smile spreading across Castiel face as he says it.

“A date?” Meg asks. “Why is that a big deal? You get hit on constantly.”

“Yeah, by like club kids or power brokers, not… hot geeks.”

“So he’s hot?”

“Yeah,” Castiel answers with an emphatic nod. “And it wasn’t like he was just hitting on me, he asked for dinner. Specifically. Oh, and he kissed me.” Meg’s eyes widen dramatically.

“Way to bury the lead, Castiel!” she snaps.

He huffs. “What are you talking about? I kiss a lot people,” he argues. “I don’t tell you about each and every one of them.”

“Yeah, but this isn’t drunkenly making out with someone behind Balthazar’s,” Meg counters. “Apparently, this guy warranted you telling me all about him. He kissed you? What else?”

“Nothing. Just a kiss,” Castiel says, a little embarrassed under Meg’s scrutiny. “And I’m getting a date out of this.” Meg’s smirk pulls at the corner of her mouth.

“Jesus, you are so smitten.” 

“Am not,” Castiel argues, unable to control his own dumb grin. 

“Oh, yes you are.” She lifts up her phone, thumb tapping along the screen.  “What company was this again? I want to google this guy.”

“Uh… Impala.” he answers. “His name is Dean Winchester.” Meg stills and slowly looks back at the screen. She presses a hand to her mouth, her expression bemused in a way that makes Castiel more than a little uneasy. 

“Oh my God!” she chuckles. “Dean Winchester. Of course.” She shuts her eyes as her shoulders shake with a laugh. 

“What do you mean ‘of course?’” Castiel asks.

“I mean ‘of fucking course!’” Meg replies. “God, after all these years, that guy finally summoned the-”

“Meg, what the hell are you talking about?” Castiel blurts out. Meg levels a cool stare at Castiel.

“Dean Winchester,” she begins, “went to high school with you.” 

There’s a solid second of silence before Castiel responds. “Bullshit.”

“Not bullshit.” she says. “Same graduating class and everything.” Castiel’s shoulders slump; he’s in no mood for one of Meg’s jokes. 

“Oh, come on!” Castiel huffs. “If that were true, it’d be big news-”

“It is, Castiel,” she interrupts.

“-And I’d absolutely know if… if a tech genius came out of Lawrence, Kansas of all places!” Meg scrunches her nose and tilts her head to the side and Castiel knows he’s in for it now.

“ _ Would you _ ?” she asks, her voice going up a note. “Would you really? Because when I start talking about  _ anything  _ going on here, your fucking eyes glaze over.”

“That’s unf-”

“You’re not interested and that’s fine.” Meg holds up a hand. “Your a brooding artist, that’s your schtick. Hold on one moment.” She slips out of the camera frame, although Castiel can still hear her padding around somewhere in the room. When she returns, she’s holding a familiar, hardcover book. 

“Let’s see,” she says, flipping through the pages before stopping on one. “There you are.” She holds up the book, displaying Castiel’s senior photo, dark hair sweeping over his kohl-lined eyes. “And… here’s Mr. Impala.” She flips through another few pages, before holding up the yearbook once more. Staring back fro the screen is a round-faced kid with floppy, dark blond hair, thick glasses and the same shining green eyes he’d seen last night.

“Oh my God,” Castiel groans. “It’s him! How did I not know this?” Meg shrugs.

“Because you’re  _ you _ ,” She sighs. “And you’ve been a naval-gazer since you were a kid.” Meg lets out a short cackle of laughter. “I guess neither one of you has changed much since high school.”

Castiel’s brow furrows. “Why is that funny?” Meg gives him the same smile she gives right before she tells a student he can’t take his grade from a D to an A in a week.

“Because Dean Winchester,  _ the  _ Dean Winchester, had the biggest crush on you all through school.”

“Ok, now I know you’re fucking with me,” he sighs. Meg shakes her head and holds a hand over her heart.

“Castiel, I swear on my ex-husband’s grave, that I’m being 100% honest.” She looks straight at the screen. “The guy was in  _ loooooove _ with you.”

“That is… utter bullshit,” Castiel stammers out. He wasn’t that unaware as a teenager… was he?

“The teachers had a betting pool going on when and where he would ever confess his feelings for you,” Meg continues. “It was part of the reason he wasn’t valedictorian. Mr. Turner was too scared he’d announce it during his graduation speech.” Castiel’s head falls into his hands, absolutely mortified. Before he can berate his past self, a text lights up his phone.

_ Dean- Sorry I missed you last night. Dinner tonight? _

Castiel stares at the screen, unsure how to respond.

“What’s up?” Meg asks.

“It’s a… a text from Dean.” Castiel swallows nervously. “He wants to have dinner tonight.”

“Cool.”

“No, not cool.” He replies. “Meg, I… I can’t do this.”

“Why not?” she asks, much calmer than Castiel would like.

“Why-? Because I was a complete asshole to him for years!” he sputters.

“You weren’t an asshole,” Meg corrects.  “You just had no idea who he was or if he even existed.” Castiel gives a sardonic snort; as if that’s better.

“Why does this bother you so much?” Meg asks. Castiel exhales heavily through his nose, not wanting to admit that he’s just as bad as those vapid hangers-on he tried to escape in New York and he always has been. He wanted a life with meaning, but he’s just a shallow, self-involved motherfucker as well. 

“I don’t know,” he lies, scrubbing a hand over his face, thankful that Meg doesn’t press him for a real answer. 

“Castiel, go on the date,” she finally says. “So you were a douchebag at 17. Know who else is a douchebag at 17?  Everyone. It’s part of being 17.”

“I was insufferable,” he mutters.

“You still kind of are,” Meg points out with a squint. “But Dean didn’t seem to care when you were at your worst and he’s willing to give you a shot now. Let the man judge for himself; he’s a big boy.”

Castiel takes a deep, assured breath and nods at the screen. Meg's right, he thinks, Neither he or Dean are idiot teenagers anymore. They can get to know each other as adults and forget about any past feelings or inconsiderate behaviors.

He types a response back to Dean and sends it before he can second guess himself.

_ Dinner sounds great. When and where? _

“I'm proud of you, Clarence,” Meg says, using his childhood nickname. Castiel grins at her, always welcoming of her approval, but deep down he's terrified of what might happen.

 

* * *

 

He and Dean agree to meet at a bar close to his hotel a little after 7 pm. Castiel only brought a single suit for the event last night, and hopes Dean won't mind him in a blazer over a tshirt and jeans.

He spots Dean as soon as he walks in, chatting amicably with the bartender and dressed in a crisp dress shirt and slacks. He looks amazing and a traitorous part of Castiel's brain wonders how he missed a body like that in high school.

He curses himself at the thought. All afternoon, Castiel had willfully been trying not to think about his and Dean’s shared past (or lack of, as it were). It was easier said than done, though, and eventually Castiel had broken down and searched Dean’s name. 

He didn't find much he didn't already know about Dean Winchester. There was shockingly very little information about him, a luxury Castiel supposed if one had the money and connections to wipe anything unwanted from the web. Dean seemed like an extraordinarily private guy who gave few interviews, mostly relying on his business partner Victor to be the voice of the company.

Castiel wondered if Dean had searched  _ him _ and cringed over the thought. God, he was such an arrogant prick when he first came into the art world, controversial for controversy’s sake. He hopes Dean didn't read too much into some of his early interviews. 

Dean spots him and smiles broadly, not a trace of derision or scorn in his expression.

“Castiel, hey.” He rises from the stool and greets Castiel with a hug that he reciprocates automatically.

“Hello, Dean,” he says, mirroring the smile and pushing aside his doubts and fears for the date. He signals for the bartender, ordering a jack and coke and hoping maybe a drink will calm his nerves. He wishes Dean had another joint on him; he could use it right now.  

The conversation flows between them as they sip their drinks, picking up right where they left off last night, and continues even after they are seated at their table.

Castiel enjoys listening to Dean talk about his passion for cars and American literature, but the elephant in the room lingers in his mind, growing more and more conspicuous (at least to him) until he can't concentrate.

He likes Dean, a lot. If Dean asked him in a second date or, God willing, back to his place, Castiel would jump at the chance. For the first time in well over a year, Castiel actively wanted to pursue a relationship.

But relationships need honesty and trust.

“I'm sorry, I-I don't remember you,” Castiel blurts out, apropos of nothing. He'd been hoping Dean might mention something about his youth or Kansas, but it hadn't come up.

Dean blinks a few times, looking at Castiel confused.

“That weed really knocked you on your ass?” he chuckles. Castiel grimaces and shakes his head.

“No, I mean high school,” he admits. Dean’s mouth claps shut and his jaw tenses; Castiel immediately regrets saying anything. 

Not like he can't take it back now, though. “I didn't even know we went to the same school, much less graduated the same year, until about 8 hours ago when… a friend pointed it out to me.” Dean stares down at the table and Castiel swears his cheeks are a little pinker than before. He swipes a hand over his mouth, a bitter smile turning his mouth.

“Ok,” he says, a little hesitant. 

“And,” Castiel inhales deeply, “and I have to say I'm sorry, about it. I'm not making excuses, ok maybe a little, but I was  _ the worst _ when I was teenager. Just… So awful.” Dean looks up and meets Castiel’s eyes for the first time, his smile tight.

“You know I had a crush on you, too, then?” It's a question, but the way he says it, it’s as much a statement of fact. Castiel nods.

“They told me that too.” He picks up his glass and drains the rest of his drink before standing from the table and pulling a $20 from his wallet.

“I am so sorry,” he mumbles as he turns and heads for the exit, maneuvering through the tables of the crowded restaurant and pushing out the door. 

Twilight had already set and the neighborhood around him glows softly under the streetlamps. Castiel takes a deep breath as he hits the sidewalk, the cool air of an early fall evening chilling his lungs. He only gets about 15 steps when he hears his name being called down the street.

“Cas! Castiel!” Dean jogs down the sidewalk, weaving past the other pedestrians. His leather shoes slap loudly against the concrete as he runs. “Stop, please!” Castiel sighs as he turns, readying himself the lecture he's no doubt about to receive.

“Dean, please don't-”

“I wasn't trying to sleep with you.” Dean’s voice rings out loud enough the grab some of the passerby's’ attention and the flush in his cheeks grows deeper. He glances around, embarrassed, then squares his shoulders, calmly taking another step toward Castiel.

“When I made the decision to bring you on to create the installation, it wasn't because of my … feelings.” Dean exhales heavily, clearly forcing out the words. “We needed an artist and you were the first person to come to mind because you are amazingly talented. I've always thought so, since… Well, for a very long time.” Castiel blinks at Dean, trying to process the word now pouring out of Dean.

“And asking you on a date… I don't know.” He rubs his hand across his eyes. “I wanted to talk to you more. I wasn't trying to extort sex from you.  _ Please  _ believe me.” 

Dean isn't mad, Castiel realizes, his words slowly filtering in.

“And the kiss?” Castiel asks, now curious what motivated Dean’s actions. A small, shy smile quirks at Dean’s mouth.

“I… I just wanted that,” he admits. “Look, I know what I did was hugely inappropriate. I promise I'm not some crazy stalker.” Castiel can't control his bark of laughter. “And I won't contact you again, just… my intention was never to make you uncomfortable.” Dean moves to walk away, but Castiel darts out his hand and grabs him by the wrist.

“I was an asshole when I was 17,” he states. “Pretty much 15-22, I was an insufferable prick and I need to apologize to you about that.” Dean’s brows draw together

“Why?”

“Because,” Castiel pulls a hand through his hair with a sigh, “clearly I had my head up my own ass and never saw that there was a wonderful person just… right there in front of me.” Dean’s face pulls into a frown, but he doesn’t say anything. Castiel glances around the street, noticing that they are gathering a few strange looks.

“Is there any place we can go to just… talk?” he asks.

“The restaurant?” Dean offers with a shrug.

“Not hungry,” Castiel says, shaking his head.

“Yeah, me neither,” Dean adds, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Ice cream.” Castiel is surprised to find that, yes, ice cream does sound pretty good. He nods and Dean tips his head for him to follow.

“Just one thing,” Dean says, stopping abruptly. “Did you… do an internet search on me?”

“Yes,” Castiel replies, too mentally exhausted to lie.

“Did you use Google or Impala?” he asks, his expression serious.

“Google,” Castiel admits, and then adds, “because I was worried that if I used Impala you could trace any searches on you and the websites visited.” Dean’s face splits into a grin and he chuckles lowly.

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“You… you can’t do that, can you?” he asks, his brow drawing together in concern. Dean’s smile falters for just a moment before brightening again. 

“Let’s… get going,” he says.

 

* * *

 

The sit next to each other on a low stone wall, not touching but close enough to be intimate. Castiel scoops up another spoonful of lavender honey gelato, humming in enjoyment. Dean wasn’t kidding when he said the gelato shop was amazing.

“So why’d you leave New York?” Dean asks between bites of cherry amarena. Their conversation was much more relaxed than before; clearing the air had eliminated all the tension… well, almost all of it. Castiel can feel the heat of Dean’s body next to him and it causes goosebumps to run up his arms and dangerous thoughts to invade his mind.

He shrugs. “It was a lot of things.” he says, which is true. “The straw that broke the camel’s back, though, was my publicist and his idea to make me an American Banksy or the Thomas Kincaid of the New Millennia.” Dean snorts and Castiel finds himself laughing as well.

“Seems kind of odd you took on a corporate commission then,” Dean points out. Castiel shrugs. 

“I… needed the cash,” he admits. “Sorry you got my half-assed attempt.” For a second Castiel is worried he might have offended Dean, but he just shrugs and takes up another scoop of his ice cream.

“I like it,” he says.

“You have no eye for art,” Castiel says bluntly. Dean considers this and nods.

“Might be true,” Dean concedes. “But I do know machinary and we’re tech company, so… priorities.” Castiel finds himself laughing out loud at the comment, his mouth full of gelato. Dean laughs as well, his body swaying as he does, lightly bumping Castiel’s shoulder.

“Can I ask something?” Dean glances over at Castiel curiously.

“Shoot.”

“Who  _ exactly  _ told you about my crush?” Dean asks. 

“The exact phrase used was ‘in looooove,’” Castiel offers coyly.

“Gimme a break, I was a kid,” Dean mutters. “But who was it?”

Castiel hesitates in answering for a moment. “Um, do you remember Ms. Masters. She taught Western World Civ.?” 

“The teacher you slept with,” Dean replies, face deadpan. Castiel stops mid bite and looks at him.

“I never slept with Meg,” he says, tone just as serious. Dean doesn’t look convinced.

“You two were always really close,” Dean says. “That was the rumor around school-”

“And it was just that: a rumor.” he sets his cup aside and turns to Dean. “Meg is friends with my mother. She’s basically like a second mom or… like a cool aunt or something. She lived with us after her dirtbag ex-husband took her house. That’s all there was to it.” Dean nods again.

“Good.” he says, with some finality. “Good. That’s good.” Castiel narrows his eyes at Dean, smirking a little at the response.

“Were you... jealous of Meg?” he asks. Dean sighs and sets his cup aside, leaning back on his hands as far as the short space of the wall will allow.

“I was jealous of everyone,” he admits. “Every guy or girl you hooked up with, anyone you made out in the hallway with, whoever you were paired with on group projects…” He shrugs in resignation.

“Y’know,” Castiel offers. “You could’ve… said something. I wouldn’t have bitten your head off or anything if you’d said ‘Hi.’” He wonders for a second if maybe Dean had said hi and he had just been to oblivious to notice, but Dean doesn’t argue.

“Yeah, well, hindsight, right?” he says. “Any way, I was kind of intimidated, y’know?”

“Intimidated?”

“I was a nerd,” Dean says plainly, with a shrug, “and you were just… cool, and brooding, and you had the hair, and the eyes.”

“Do you know I still have those?” Castiel says sarcastically. 

“Smartass,” Dean laughs, pushing at his shoulder. Castiel pushes back playfully, chuckling himself. He glances at Dean, their eyes meeting for a moment as the air between them seems to grow thick with tension. 

Castiel moves this time, leaning forward slowly and capturing Dean’s lips with his own. His mouth tastes cloyingly sweet from the cherries and his lips are sticky, but Castiel doesn’t care. They kiss languidly, Dean’s cool tongue massaging over Castiel’s. Their hands find each other and Dean laces his fingers over the top of Castiel’s and squeezing them.

When they finally pull back, Dean smiles at him shyly, once again biting at his lip in that oddly familiar way. 

“So where are you headed next?” Dean asks. “New York? Chicago?” Castiel holds up his hands, indicating a wide spanse.

“Don’t know,” he says. “I’m taking a … gap year, I guess.” Dean nods.

“And… do you think you might extend that gap here a little bit longer?” Dean sounds nonchalant, but Castiel can see the vulnerable look in his eye. “Because, I think we’re owed a real dinner date.”

“Yeah, I think we are,” Castiel agrees. “And I think this area definitely has some qualities worth staying for.” he winds his and Dean’s hands together, going in for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> My [tumblr](http://powerfulweak.tumblr.com/)


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